Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  Nothing about Ezekiel surprised her anymore. She skipped over to hug him. Then grabbed his hand and pulled him to the staircase. “Come, let’s find Sirath! Before he gets into trouble.”

  Pure Heart

  Sirath

  Sirath stood on a low timber bridge, over a green canal, remembering Cal. Sirath would have died with him, if he hadn’t kept his promise to Widow Dyer.

  He’d resented helping her beat cloth. All the time she’d chattered away. Then she’d mentioned her son, a few years dead. She’d said a Father Murrano had persuaded him and his friends to help steal a tax wagon, only to betray them. That’s when Sirath had realized Cal and the others were walking into a trap. He’d run back along the river to warn them, his lungs set to burst.

  Only to see their bodies float past him.

  Sirath looked around where he was now, reminding himself this was Corianth, not Canalecht. It was a quiet area, so he dared open his purse to honor them. He took out five guilders, and stared at each. Then flipped one into the water. That was for Dierra. He did the same for Milo. Next, Lucen. Then Jenna. The order he’d seen them last, rolling in the current with their throats gashed open.

  Sirath held the last coin in his hand. Cal had been his best friend as a boy. It was the ratcatcher who’d separated them, and put Sirath in the workhouse. When they’d met up again Cal was nearly a man, all muscle and hair, and interested in girls — and Sirath still a boy by comparison. Living in different worlds for so long, a distance had grown between them. But Cal had still been his friend.

  Sirath twisted the guilder in his fingers. He flipped it into the water. A last offering, this was for Cal. As he watched it splash, his eyes welled up. He tried to swallow his grief and mouth the words, but he had no voice for them. Gone, but never forgotten.

  He couldn’t bring back his friends. But he might save Jerine.

  He’d spent half the morning making himself known on these streets. The beggars were always the key. He’d put out the word that he wanted to parley, and been given a name.

  Pure Heart.

  It was an unusual one for a street jack. But no one would say more, no matter the bribe. He’d had to remain patient. All he could do now was wait, where he’d been told to.

  A covered wagon rattled along the road toward him, the horses tall and strong. The driver was plump and jolly, and greeted him with an honest face and an inviting smile. Sirath knew to distrust him immediately — no one was charming unless they wanted something from you.

  “Ho, there, my friend! You look tired and in need of a rest. Hop in the back and I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” The driver slowed as he drew alongside, then dropped his voice, “Especially if you want to parley with Pure Heart.”

  Sirath wiped his face, hoping no one had noticed him crying and looking weak. The wagon trundled on. Dirty faces stared out from the back — young men or boys, in patched rags. They leered at Sirath as they passed by, a challenge in their eyes.

  Sirath cursed the danger he faced. Meeting a street jack was never going to be pleasant. Least of all with the wealth he now carried. But it had never felt like his, anyway. He’d got some good clothes out of it. He just wished he’d kept that bread from yesterday — he might need it after this.

  He took a deep breath. All he had to do was think of Jerine’s smiling face to know this was worth trying. “Alright. Slow down and I’ll get in.”

  The driver laughed. “Opportunity passes. You need to make a leap of faith.”

  Sirath gritted his teeth. He ran forward, then jumped up onto the back of the wagon.

  Strong hands grabbed him, pulled him in, then pushed him onto a bench. None too rough, but hardly friendly. Sirath looked up, and found himself beside a powerfully-built man with a gray beard. A huge double-headed ax rested across the man’s lap. The haft rested against Sirath's side and he could feel its weight — and its promise to crush his ribs if he dared move too fast.

  The man looked down. “Stay calm, laddie.”

  Across from him were a pair of lithe men in leather vests, their faces and arms covered in scars. Mean knives were sheathed at their belts. Pit fighters, at a guess. Typical bodyguards. Absolutely the last people in the world Sirath should upset.

  Between them, on the bench, was a little girl. Her clothes were as poor as his had been, before his money. Intense eyes stared out from under her lank, black hair. She could hardly have been more than eight years old.

  The way she looked at him made Sirath shiver. It was as if she stared into his soul, and there was nothing but dirt and lies there. He was tempted to make a joke, to ease the tension. But anything that came to mind in this madness didn’t seem a good idea at all.

  He glanced about, looking for the hard expression of a man, who’d regard Sirath like a boy would before pulling wings from a fly. Instead, there were just a couple of women in gowns beyond the pit fighters, and young boys at the entrance to the wagon. There was no one else.

  So, he was simply being driven on to meet with ...

  Realization dawned. It was the little girl who was in the centre of this crowd.

  Sirath blinked incredulously at her. “You’re Pure Heart?”

  The girl said, “Why are you looking for me?”

  A girl as a street jack? It didn’t make any sense. Unless someone had an even more twisted view of the world than him. He was far more out of his depth than he’d expected. Waves of nausea washed over him again. The movement of the wagon didn’t help, neither. This had all been a bad idea, full of good intentions gone wrong.

  “I asked you a question,” Pure Heart said, her tone demanding an answer.

  Sirath remembered himself and his manners. “My apologies ... my friends are trapped in the city. They need help to escape.” He held out his purse, making sure gold coins were visible. “I’ve near a hundred crowns here. It’s everything I have. I offer it to you, if you’ll protect them.”

  Pure Heart was silent for a moment. “The Mother will protect them, if she wishes to.”

  Sirath gritted his teeth, wanting to shout that he wasn’t into any of this bollocks. He had a simple request — a simple reply would be good. He fought down his frustration. “No one will protect us. We’ve barely survived the past few of days as it is.”

  Pure Heart never broke her gaze from him. “Who are you really trying to save?”

  It was hard not to grimace, or fall to his knees and plead. Not for his life. For Jerine’s. “A woman I’m traveling with. Her friends, too, if you can. She’ll not leave without them.”

  “Why is it important she lives?”

  “Because I love her.” Sirath bit his lip, unsure if he exaggerated. “And she loves me, in her own way. Only she can’t proper, because she serves the Goddess.”

  The girl looked away, as if in thought.

  Sirath feared to have said the wrong thing. Were the Mother and Goddess the same, or rivals? He’d no idea.

  There was too long a silence.

  He held a pleading gaze on the girl. Not just for her help, but that her gang could deliver.

  “I saw the Mother last night, in a dream,” Pure Heart said. “She was in the city. She told me two things. The first was that she’d call for me with a voice like thunder. The other was that she’d send a messenger with gold. I wonder if that man is you?”

  Sirath made no reply. He’d be anything, if it would help. But he didn’t trust his voice to sound honest if he claimed something like that. Especially when his wits were slowed by a blow to the head. Whatever was at play here was beyond his understanding. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. He kept quiet.

  “I will give my decision ... tomorrow.” Pure Heart faced away.

  Sirath’s heart fell. Tomorrow was too late. He’d risked everything for nothing.

  The ax-man beside him tapped Sirath on the shoulder. “That’s your invitation to leave. Be quick about it, laddie.”

  Sirath needed no prompting. He scrambled to the back of the wagon,
and over of the end. He dropped to the road, his purse in his hands. He stood with the noise of the city at his back, and his dream of help fading.

  The wagon trundled away. Finally, it turned onto a side street and out of sight.

  And that was it. He’d no idea of what to do now, other than run or hide —

  A hand clasped his shoulder and he spun around in fright.

  “There you are!” Jerine said.

  Ezekiel stood with her, stroking his weasel in his hands.

  “Jerine? Ezekiel?” Sirath stepped back in confusion. “How ... did you find me?”

  She shared an awkward glance with Ezekiel. “We’ve been following the main avenue. We were lucky to see you just now.” She slipped her arm into his, and pulled him along. “Do you know who you are, and where you are?”

  He nodded. He felt himself lighten, glad to see her. Then realized her hold was no mere mock courtesy — she gripped his arm tight so he couldn’t let go. He relaxed and allowed her to lead him along.

  “Good. Then don’t wander off again, leaving others to worry.”

  “I ... won’t,” he said, almost heartened by her concern.

  Jerine smiled through her teeth. “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

  It wasn’t far to the busy main avenue. As they stepped into the onslaught of city noise, a sickly feeling rose from his stomach. He told Jerine he might throw up, but it didn’t seem like his voice — more like if someone else spoke for him.

  Jerine let him stop and rest. She rubbed his back. “Don’t worry. We can wait.”

  Ezekiel looked fretful. “We must get back. I shouldn’t leave Erin for long.”

  Sirath nodded, not sure what to do now. He’d tried to help them, but it hadn’t worked. At least, he thought he had. It was hard to think. Meeting with Pure Heart no longer seemed real, more like a dream. Had it really happened?

  There was the clip of hooves, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose — there was something regimental to that rhythm. He carefully glanced aside.

  Cardinals’ Men. A handful of them. They stopped across the street, and questioned people outside of an eatery.

  Despite his new clothes, and conviction that he wore disguise enough, the last thing Sirath needed now was the attention of troopers. Especially when still dizzy and confused.

  A large inn stood to one side, fronted with pillars of polished black stone. Sirath pulled Jerine’s arm. He opened the front door and dragged her in, then Ezekiel as an afterthought.

  Inside was dark and shadowed, and full of figures. Sirath dared to look behind, through a glazed window. And checked on what the Cardinals’ Men were doing now. A full troop had converged from nowhere, and stopped everyone.

  Sirath stepped away, not wanting to be seen behind the glass. He stumbled and dropped his purse, and a handful of crowns spilled out. As he hurried to collect them up, his back tingled. An awareness grew of an expectant silence behind him. Slowly, he turned.

  In a hall of dark, varnished wood, merchants were seated around a large table. Their retinues spread out across stools behind them. Everyone seemed to be from every part of the world. They stared at him.

  A rich man with a paunch stood up from the centre — an Alithidil, judging by his crisp, bleached white robe, and jeweled headband. Hoops of silver hung from his ears. A golden tooth glinted in his sharp smile. “Peace be upon you, my friends. You have arrived just in time.” On the table were spread playing cards with an ivory sheen. Much better quality than the painted wooden ones he was used to. “We are about to play craft, Irithian rules. Seat yourselves, and place your bets ... we play for gold!”

  Preparing to Dance

  Tilirine

  Tilirine folded her outer robe by an old chest in the corner — and prepared to dance.

  She cracked her knuckles, then worked through a routine of small movements to warm her muscles. Then focused on loosening her limbs, swinging them out as she walked about the floorboards.

  Erin remained asleep on the pallet bed. Ezekiel’s staff lay next to her — a gentle hum emanating from it. The room was otherwise dusty and empty. This had once been living quarters for a family. Small hooks on the ceiling showed where partitions had hung. Four old windows of thin glass spoke of richer times, long gone.

  Tilirine stretched her legs behind her back, and idly looked out. An old timber mill faced across the street. She bounced on her toes.

  She turned and walked to the centre of the uneven and warped floor. She pushed her body through the charayanas of Climbing Monkey, Little Scorpion, then Soaring Eagle.

  She had been trained in the first three elemental dances, but had never been able to master the fourth: the Khalaki, the Way of Fire. Even the name caused her to shiver — her great, indefatigable foe. But last night Dalathos had defied it. The sight of him charging the flames returned to her mind. It was not fire, only fear, that defeated her. She could challenge that.

  An insight, made possible by Jerine’s peril.

  Was that what Vindaresh had intended? That through aiding her sister, Tilirine empowered herself? If true, it would be a hard lesson to endure.

  She seated herself on the floor, and crossed her legs into Flowering Lotus. She measured her breathing into the Rhythm of Atmah.

  It would take practice to defeat fear. She would begin with the Way of Water, the Koulakhin. Then dare attempt the Khalaki.

  She allowed her mind to fall away, leaving it open and empty. The room darkened as the illusions of life faded. Her being touched the realm of Agadesh. Movements of force flowed from her body, swirling, churning, to create holes of presence her limbs should fill.

  She jumped to her feet. Snapped her fists into a series of punches. Then kicked. The world seemed to open beneath — she leapt up, and spun through the air.

  Tilirine danced the Koulakhin.

  She ran and jumped off from a wall. Rolled on the floor and slid her feet out. Her fingers stabbed the air.

  The dance continued.

  She readied to break the chains of fear that had failed her mind. She would touch the domain of Sindra herself. And dance the Way of Fire.

  Tilirine leaped up and reached out with her being.

  The world stopped.

  She was a little girl. Her mother smiled down at her, held her close to her warm, comforting bosom. Then her mother receded into darkness. Tilirine shouted for fear of being alone. The room burst into orange flames. A savage heat burned her. Tilirine fled screaming while her body seemed to melt.

  Something slammed into Tilirine’s face and the vision stopped. Stunned, she remained still. Her eyes flickered open. She lay on the floor, in the room at the top of the Bod and Bumpkin.

  She was unharmed. But she had failed to achieve Khalaki.

  She tried to move, but her limbs trembled. She felt utterly weak, and unimaginably vulnerable.

  A degree of control returned to her body. She clasped and unclasped her hands, her strength rising. She moved the dead weight of an arm, then a leg, until she managed to sit up.

  Her mind reeled — this had never happened before! She was a disciple of Agadesh, Mover of Worlds. Nearly a decade of training and discipline shaped her. Only to come undone in a moment.

  Erin stirred. The blankets shifted. A groan escaped her lips.

  Though shaken, Tilirine managed to stagger toward the bed. “Erin, be still.” Tilirine worried that any movement might tear the stitches at Erin’s wound. “Everything ... is safe.”

  Erin’s bruised face screwed up in anguish. Tears squeezed from her eyes. A harsh sob broke from her mouth.

  Tilirine had not expected her to wake yet. She lay a hand on Erin’s shoulder, and wondered if she dared risk a nerve pinch, to make her rest longer.

  Erin relaxed back with a moan. She slept again.

  Tilirine continued to watch, grateful that she did not need to act. As she slowly regained her own strength, Tilirine touched the Song of the World. There was no sense of motion, no paths led away, and there
was no beat of drums. Emptiness. Inaction. There was safety here, in this moment.

  But whoever had followed them to the Lion Inn could track them to this place. It was said that Councilor Amberlin had fled the city. If true, they had been abandoned by their one potential ally. Even the Emperor’s Guard weakened them with their commission of Dalathos and Ulric. And unless Tilirine could master her fear, Jerine might meet her fate here — taking with her Tilirine’s dream of belonging.

  And she could not allow that.

  She stood and she cracked her knuckles. Then worked through a routine of small movements to warm her muscles.

  She would attempt to walk the Way of Fire.

  Again.

  Craft

  Sirath

  Sirath looked over his cards to the gold piled on the table — Corianth crowns, Irithian sovereigns, Eptemian solidi, and small ingots. He had to hide that his heart thumped with excitement. Holding a King’s House with a jester, all that wealth would be his.

  He’d only intended to play one round. If the Cardinals’ Men entered this place, then he’d just be a merchant among merchants, gaming at leisure. There would be no reason to take an interest in him at all.

  Qas the Alithidil had thrown his coins to the table with cheer and abandon — as carefree as splashing water down a well. Sirath had seen easy pickings.

  And lost five crowns in the first round of play. That had smarted. But he’d expected to win them back.

  Eight games later, and his losses stood at forty. Almost half of his new fortune was gone. Determination turned to desperation.

  But now he’d win it all back, and more.

  He measured twenty crowns into a stack. “I’ll raise you.” As he pushed it forward, it broke into a pile. For a moment his confidence cracked at what might be a portent.

  Jerine raised an eyebrow from behind her own cards.

  “We must leave after this,” Ezekiel hissed with insistence. “If you don’t, I will.”

  Sirath ignored him. Winning his money back was more important.